


kissed by the sun

by anarmydoctor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:23:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarmydoctor/pseuds/anarmydoctor
Summary: John’s smiling, and there are eleven wrinkles on his face that the sun will never reach. The sun is at its zenith now, and John’s nose is getting pink, and so are his cheeks and his shoulders, and Sherlock’s fingers areitching, because he can almost sense the tension of the punished skin under his fingertips, and he knows that he could touch John if he wanted (and hewants, he wants as much as the Earth wants the Sun, as much as the Sea wants the Moon), but he doesn’t move. He feels like there’s something timeless and sacred about that moment, about the peace that’s wrapping around them both, and he doesn’t want to disturb it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the amazing Johnlock Fanzine, available for purchase [here](https://gumroad.com/l/ZkvEj)! Thanks so much to Bruna and Ashleigh for all their help and patience. You two are one of the best things to happen to this fandom :')
> 
> (I am anarcheress on tumblr now!)

 

Sherlock is rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Methodically and efficiently, as he learned long ago: unbutton the cuff and gauntlet buttons. Flip the cuff back and inside out. Pull the flipped cuff all the way to just below your elbow without folding, turning the sleeve inside out as it goes. Take the bottom of the inside-out portion and fold it up until it traps the bottom of the cuff. There.

Sherlock clenches and unclenches his hands. He can feel the sting of the sun touching the uncovered skin of his arms, like the first scrape of a bow against the strings. Like a first kiss burns, tentative and yet incendiary.

It’s hot now, and he’s starting to sweat. He and John were in Southerndown for a case, and after a fruitless morning, John had suggested they come to Dunraven Bay. Because John loves the beach. And the sea, and the sun, and the sand. And apparently, he loves just sitting on a rock with his eyes closed and a blissful smile on his face. What can Sherlock do, but look silly and out of place, sitting as well on a rock, wearing a suit minus the jacket that is now neatly folded beside him, sweating and thinking: what’s so great about the beach, the sea, and the sun anyway?

John, however, looks like he’s in heaven. Sherlock observes him. He is already shirtless, and his feet are bare, digging carelessly into the sand. John’s face is so relaxed that he looks like a young boy, his eyes closed and his eyelashes a flutter of wheat, almost white under the unforgiving sun. His face is tanned, as he was when Sherlock saw him for the first time, and Sherlock’s heart jumps a bit at the thought. So many things have changed since that day. So many things are different now, and the information piles in Sherlock’s mind, forcing him to pick only what’s important for the case at the moment, such as: 1) John’s tan doesn’t end abruptly above his wrists, but it goes all along his arms, his chest, his back, his shoulders, except for his scar (Sherlock’s heart jumps again), because the scar is, of course, still pink, like the inside of a shell, perpetually young, opalescent and immaculate. 2) John’s hair is longer now, and greyer, and softer. John has been stealing Sherlock’s shampoo, and Sherlock pretends he doesn’t notice, because 3) John’s hair is very soft now, especially where it swoops and curls a little at the top of his head, and 4) it smells _glorious_. 5) John has never needed a cane again. 6) John is happy now.

John’s smiling, and there are eleven wrinkles on his face that the sun will never reach. The sun is at its zenith now, and John’s nose is getting pink, and so are his cheeks and his shoulders, and Sherlock’s fingers are _itching_ , because he can almost sense the tension of the punished skin under his fingertips, and he knows that he could touch John if he wanted (and he _wants_ , he wants as much as the Earth wants the Sun, as much as the Sea wants the Moon), but he doesn’t move. He feels like there’s something timeless and sacred about that moment, about the peace that’s wrapping around them both, and he doesn’t want to disturb it.

He turns his face to look at the vast sea instead, and thinks about the seas of his childhood, about how old the sea is, if it ages at all. He thinks about the Romantic painting of a stormy sea hanging on a wall in his parents’ house, he thinks of the sea as a concept, as a large mass of salty water, and about when and why he really started to hate it. Maybe it’s because it has always made his work difficult, always undoing, eroding and corroding. Maybe it’s because it has always made him feel small and isolated; a small man in a big coat, a man and a single fire, a single flame on a darkened shore. Sherlock thinks of lighthouses. Unmistakable signs. He likes those.

He can feel John’s eyes on him, and four seconds later, John’s hand is on his back. Sherlock’s shirt is clinging with sweat to the skin, but John doesn’t seem to mind. Sherlock looks at him, his mind no longer drifting - John’s eyes have the colour of the sea, which is absolutely mundane and inconvenient, but still, they are, as the sea, deep, and blue, and devastating.

"Aren’t you going to take your shoes off, at least?"

John’s voice is warm, as is his hand on Sherlock’s back. There’s no exasperation in it. Sherlock is sure, because he knows, has learned, every different inflection of John’s voice, in the same way he has secretly mapped every inch of John’s skin. What’s in John’s voice this time is a trace of guilt, for having dragged Sherlock to a place John knows Sherlock doesn’t like (because John too, Knows Things. He’s far from an idiot. He is, in fact, remarkably smart. Sherlock wonders if John has maps of Sherlock too, but the thought is too flattering, still too terrifying). There’s also tenderness in John’s voice, the wish for Sherlock to be happy and at ease. There’s love, too. John’s voice holds so many things, too many good things. It weighs with fondness and heart.

In other times (the times when Sherlock learned to roll up his shirt sleeves in a proper manner, the times when he met John, when he needed to show the world how clever he was, that he was not a small man in a big coat, that he was Someone), he would have answered such a question with a snappy retort. Building walls, lighting fires. But those times are long gone. Now, he knows he doesn’t need to bite to win. That he doesn’t even need to win. And now, he’s Someone’s Someone. Now John is with him, and he is with John, and as the sea does to the land, John has changed Sherlock. Sometimes crashing and renewing himself in the process. Sometimes with the most quiet, delicate touches.

So Sherlock just shrugs, and replies, "Why not."

Before he can move, John is moving, getting on his knees on the sand, and smiling, bright and joyous like the summer sun. Sherlock smiles too. He can’t help it.

John takes off Sherlock's shoes delicately, making sure to completely loosen the shoelaces first, and then removing each carefully, placing them on the rock where Sherlock is still sitting. Then he takes Sherlock’s black socks off, slowly, almost reverently, holding one foot in his hand, a firm grip on the tender skin of Sherlock’s ankle, while placing the other foot on his thigh. When Sherlock’s feet finally touch the heated sand, he can feel his heart beating wildly in his throat, and he’s aware he’s gawking at John, who’s still caressing his skin, a light, soft touch that makes Sherlock _tingle_. He thinks then that maybe John is, too, a secret cartographer after all.

It’s okay. Sherlock wiggles his toes in the sand, and it’s okay. It’s nice, actually. John’s hands rest now on his thighs, and there’s a flash of gold where the sun hits the ring he wears. Sherlock brings his hands to his lap, just to see how the light reaches his own ring, making it shine too. Almost unconsciously, he brushes the ring with his thumb as he has done many, many times, and makes it turn all around his finger, so the sun can kiss it entirely, every inch of it, as John has kissed it many, many times. Rings are unmistakable signs, and Sherlock likes those.

John stands up and wavers, hesitating. Sherlock understands, and he goes to stand too. He wouldn’t mind a walk, or get his feet in the sea, even.

Wordlessly, they start to walk together towards the water, and Sherlock thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , the sea is not that bad. He can feel its magnetic pull, stronger as they get closer. It’s a familiar feeling. He looks at John, who is looking at him. John’s eyes are as big and youthful as the sea, that blue destroyer of evidence, and Sherlock loves them so much he feels like he’s drifting away.

John takes his hand, and there it is. The only anchor Sherlock will ever need.

 


End file.
